Three Stars
by Last of the Loneliness
Summary: Stars rise over a ragged land, cats descended from the Clans fight for power, and the dead walk once again. Three stars will rise, three stars will fall, but the Three will blaze a pathway for the fourth to conquer all. Rewritten.
1. Prologue

_Prologue_

Snowfoot had always disliked the woods. They surrounded the territory in a thick forest, a forest that to all sides but the south crept up the mountainsides, hiding who knew what in their depths. To the south, they sloped down, following the contours of the river as it carved waterfalls out among the hills. Even though she was going south today, she still felt claustrophobic, as though the mountains were pressing in against her fur. Just to reassure herself, she gazed up through the leaves to the sky. It was little comfort, however; it was covered by dark clouds that boded a storm. She turned away and continued through the dark trees, trying to ignore her foreboding.

Somewhere close by a bird called. The white she-cat jumped, looking around warily, before she recognized the call as just a robin. _Just a little further_, she told herself sternly, _and then you'll see there's nothing to worry about_.

The woods thinned bit by bit, until she was standing in a clearing, surrounded by trees, next to the gorge where the river ran. She stared down the rocks at the white water far below, splashing on its way to the south. The breeze picked up and Snowfoot shivered.

There was a crackle of a twig behind her and Snowfoot turned, looking every which way for the source but seeing nothing, just the omnipresent shadows of the woods. She slowly looked back at the gorge, her fur bristling.

A cat was sitting on the far side of the crevice, just far enough away that Snowfoot could not make out its features, only a wild tangle of black-and-white fur. The strange cat drew her attention, and she found herself mindlessly drawing closer to the cliff as she curiously looked across…

"Sorry I'm late!"

The spell was broken and Snowfoot backed up, alarmed to see that she had been barely a rabbit-length from falling into the gorge. She glanced up, only to see that the mysterious cat was nowhere to be seen.

She slowly turned around, looking at her companion. He was large, but his coat was lusterless and clung to every rib. He looked exhausted. Snowfoot rushed forward and licked his shoulder in greeting.

"I didn't mind the wait," she lied, looking up at him, her smile dissipating as she looked him over. "You…you look…oh, Weedclaw…"

"Horrible?" he offered with a grim smile. "I know. I'm sorry. I've had no appetite, even though Gorsestripe's been hunting for me. He says it means the sickness is progressing."

Snowfoot shook her head. "Do you know how long?"

He sighed, his eyes clouding over. "Oh, Snowfoot…Gorsestripe thinks less than a moon. He's tried everything he knows, but the sickness always comes back worse than before." He backed away suddenly and coughed onto the ground. Snowfoot was alarmed to see blood staining the dirt a shade darker. "I'm sorry."

"No, don't apologize," she said, pressing up against him. "I had hoped for longer…tell me, how are the kits?"

Weedclaw's gaze sharpened. "The kits would be much better if they had a mother, as I'm sure you know."

Snowfoot pulled away. "You know I can't do that!"

"They'll have no one to look after them," Weedclaw said, pleading with her. "They barely know how to hunt."

"Ask Gorsestripe to look after them."

"Gorsestripe would hunt for them, drop in once a moon," Weedclaw scoffed. "He barely even speaks to me, and I'm his brother. He can't handle kits. Your family—"

"My family is no place for three young ones," Snowfoot protested. "The games that must be played, the competition, having to know where to put your allegiance—it's bad enough for the rest of us, let alone the bastard kits, the sole heirs to the Family of the Plains. They'd be ripped apart, or worse, they'd be drowned."

Weedclaw snorted at her double meaning. "It surely can't be that bad."

"It's worse," Snowfoot said grimly. "Even if they survived kithood, even if one of them became Patriarch, they would still be irrevocably damaged. I don't want my kits corrupted by the madness of my family."

"You'd rather see them starve? Have no home, no one to look after them? They'd grow up wild and undisciplined out there," Weedclaw said angrily. "They'd become sacks of fur who don't know either of their parents. They'd live meaningless lives and die of hunger. I'd rather have a damaged kit make Patriarch than a wild one die like a rabbit."

Snowfoot glared at him, though she could sense she was losing the argument. Weedclaw was right—the kits needed someone to look after them. "I don't approve, but if there's nothing else to be done…"

"There isn't."

"…then I'll take them. We'll have to meet here again, in four sunrises. Bring them, and I'll do all that I can."

Weedclaw nodded, relieved. "Yes. I will." He began to groom her, licking the fur on her back, but she pulled away as a raindrop splashed onto her nose, more soon following.

"I have to go," she said, shaking her fur to get the wetness out of it. "I've been gone long enough. Bring the kits."

Weedclaw tried to say something, but the wind drowned out his voice as Snowfoot turned and left the clearing the way she had come. The tom stared after her for a few seconds, anguish in his eyes, before he submitted to the storm and disappeared into the woods as well.

Snowfoot made her slow way through the forest. The going seemed much slower than when she had come, and the howling wind didn't make matters better. The trees blocked most of the rain, at least.

She had been walking for quite a while when she realized she had already passed a certain stone. She looked around for landmarks and saw nothing familiar. Desperate, she looked to the sky, but the clouds were too low for her to see the mountains. She was lost.

Somewhere far away in the sky, thunder rumbled. The woods, always dark, looked more menacing in the half-light. She turned—and there was a flash of black and white fur.

"Who's there?" she called, but the fur was gone and there was no response. Snowfoot took a deep breath, trying to calm herself, when she felt something touch her.

She did not look, did not even pause to breathe. She ran, mindlessly, from what she did not want to know. The woods flashed by in a blur, and more than once she tripped on a loose twig, only to pull herself up and continue running.

Snowfoot didn't look ahead. She didn't see that she had been running along the river, and it took a sudden bend in front of her. One minute she was running through trees, and the next her paws slipped out from under her. She plummeted into the gorge, head over tail, her breath caught in her throat and leaving her unable to breathe.

Far away, a brown tom padded to his den with a heavy heart, going home to kits that would never meet their mother. Rain pounded down in a small clearing, and cats hid under leaves for shelter. A black-and-white tom with stars in his fur watched from the side of a cliff, and a broken body covered in white fur rushed downstream in a swollen river.

* * *

**A/N: This is a complete rewrite of Three Stars, a story I previously had on my account. I have made character and plot changes. Thanks to _Blackish_ for concritting the previous story; you were a great help to me. Constructive criticism is always appreciated! Please tell me what you think! **


	2. Storm's Rising

Storm's Rising

The bones had been there as long as Streamkit could remember—which, as Frostleaf was always quick to remind her, was not very long. They dangled from the branches of the towering willow where they had been set, swaying in the breeze. They were a cat's bones, Rippleshadow had told her, the bones of a cat who had come to the family and never left. Yellowed by time, with faint vestiges of fur and skin clinging onto them, they loomed as a warning to other cats who would stand against the Water.

That had been back when Streamkit would visit Rippleshadow and hear all of the best stories, stories of the ancient war with the Family of Birds, of courageous deeds, of a time when cats lived in fear of monstrous beasts they called 'dogs.' Then Frostleaf had gotten wind of "all those horrible vicious stories, unfit for the ears of a kit, and shame on you for telling the scrap" and had forbidden Streamkit from visiting her granduncle. On this day, a particularly hot and dry specimen, Streamkit missed those stories more than ever. She had nothing to do but lie in the shade of a bush, watching her sisters play. Frostleaf sat to one side, keeping a careful eye on her kits.

"I envy the Sky their cave on days like this," she sighed, shaking out her thick grey fur in an effort to air her coat out.

Streamkit perked up. "Cave?"

"In the plenty times, the Sky go down their mountain and into a cave that houses a waterfall. I imagine it must be wonderfully cool there…" Frostleaf must have been dazed by the heat, for she usually disliked speaking about anything other than the matters at hand. "See that mountain, Streamkit?"

Of course Streamkit could see the mountain. It loomed over the valley where the Water lived, overshadowing it. It looked dark, blue-black, though at the tip where no trees grew it was pale and grey in color. The mountain was a jagged, imposing figure, feeding into ridges that surrounded the valley from all sides but to the south.

"See," Streamkit mewed.

"The Sky live there. Odd cats. I've met a few, and they have the strangest customs. They _are_ our allies, but even so…" Frostleaf yawned and lay back on the grass.

Customs? Allies? Streamkit couldn't make heads or tails of those words, but before she could ask Frostleaf what they meant, Riverkit interrupted, scrambling over to the bush and poking Streamkit in the side.

"But we're much stronger than them, aren't we, Mother? That's why they have to serve us. We could defeat them easily!"

Frostleaf sighed. "It's time for me to go out on patrol, kits. Stay in camp until your father returns, or Rushingstream will punish you."

"We will, Mother," Riverkit said promptly. Streamkit's tail drooped in disappointment; she had wanted a real story, but Riverkit had spoiled it.

Frostleaf gave the three of them a tired smile before turning and padding away across the stretch of grassy ground.

The camp of the Family of Water looked much the same as the rest of their land; a flat expanse with long grasses, scattered rocks, and a stream running through the center. It was ringed by trees on both ends, though on its southern side the grass sloped up into a hill, where the ancient weeping willow towered and where the Patriarch's den was. Now, at midday, few cats were out and about. Many were seeking shelter at the fringes of camp under the trees, and even more had gone hunting to escape the heat.

"No cat's watching," Brookkit, the third and final sibling, said, coming up to stand next to the other two. She was plain next to either of them, her fur brown and unremarkable against Streamkit's pale silver or Riverkit's beautiful mottled pelt in its shades of grey. The only trait the three shared were their green eyes. "We could sneak out, and no cat would ever know."

"Mother told us to stay," Riverkit said.

"You never listen to Mother anyway," Brookkit said scathingly. "Come on! We can play out in the deep grass. It'll be fun! You can be Matriarch today."

Riverkit considered the offer. Brookkit usually was the Matriarch in their play-games, if only because she was able to beat Riverkit in any contest of fighting skill. Streamkit stayed silent. However much she might have wanted to be Matriarch for once, she knew what they would say: mocking her and her lack of speech—"A Matriarch who can't even talk? What, she would just yowl?"

After a final quick, furtive look around, Riverkit led the way out of camp, slipping through the clearing until she reached the higher grass. She disappeared into it, Streamkit and Brookkit following.

The deep grass was a ways away from the camp, which was part of why the kits liked it so much—there was less of a chance of being caught, and it had the extra mark of being especially forbidden, since it was on the western edge of the territory. _"Eastwards lies the Sky. Ginger fur beware—Water hates the fire but loves the air."_

It was a silly rhyme that every Water queen taught to their kits from a young age. None of the kits really knew what was so bad about the Fire, except that they were evil cats who lived in the western mountains. Even Rippleshadow did not like to speak about the Fire; when Streamkit asked why, he had only said "Better to mock the fears of the past than the dangers of the present," which made no sense to her.

The three kits wound their way through the grass, making their way toward the steep cliff that was the western edge of the Water's territory, until they reached the meadow. Brookkit and Riverkit liked the clearing for the large rock in the center; Streamkit liked seeing the red earth beneath the grass. Today, however, Streamkit was restless, and a chill caught in her fur despite the heat. She stared up at the dark clouds rolling slowly into the sky.

"Storm," she mewed.

Brookkit rolled her eyes as she turned to look. "If it starts raining too hard, we'll just go back to camp. Stop whining."

"Don't listen to her," Riverkit ordered, struggling up the rough side of the boulder before coming to the top and shaking out her pretty grey fur. "I'm Matriarch! Riverstorm…Riverflower…I like Riverwater," she decided. "You can be Brookclaw."

"I don't want to be Brookclaw," Brookkit mewed impatiently. "I'll be Brookfang or Brookslash."

"Brookfang then," Riverkit said, before looking down at Streamkit. "And you, you'll be Streamfur."

Streamkit didn't object; there was no point. Whenever she suggested her favorite, Streamfoot, they would simply mock her for saying "foot" and not her whole name.

She sat still and watched the clouds roll in, waiting for the storm to break.

* * *

Under the same dark clouds, halfway across the territory, a young blue-grey she-cat padded along with her mentor and both of her brothers. Her name was Bluepaw, and she was Rushingstream's only daughter. Of course, the Patriarch rarely had time for his sons, let alone her.

In front of her, Greenpaw and Brownpaw were discussing the catches they had made on patrol. Brownpaw was carrying a large rabbit in his mouth, while Greenpaw only had a mouse.

"Did you see me run? Not even Stormrose the Swift could have caught this."

"Always wanted to be faster than a dead she-cat, did you?"

"Stormrose was a Matriarch."

"So? She's still a dead she-cat. Besides, mice don't run. This rabbit ran, and I caught it. That's all that matters. Where was your Stormrose-speed when you missed that squirrel?"

"At least I did better than Bluepaw," Greenpaw called back loudly. "She didn't scent a thing, let alone catch it."

Brownpaw was only too happy to join in. "What, have your head in the clouds again today, Bluepaw? Is the heat getting you down?"

"Fire can't quench water," Bluepaw snapped, only to have Creekpelt, Brownpaw's mentor, hiss down at her to be quiet. She sullenly kept her mouth closed and walked along next to her mentor, Frostleaf. "Besides, I smelled smoke," she added quietly.

Frostleaf looked at her sharply. "Smoke? There's no fire here. We'd see the smoke."

"I smelled it, all the same," Bluepaw insisted, as her brothers exchanged skeptical looks. "It smells harsh and dark and it hurts my throat."

"We're going back to camp," said Creekpelt, turning in exasperation. "Can't you three keep quiet? You'll scare away all the prey in the territory, not to mention bring the Fire down on us like a pla—"

"Don't mention the Fire!" Frostleaf snapped, and Creekpelt subsided.

"Right, sorry, Snowfoot."

"No, Creekpelt, I'm Frostleaf," the she-cat said, without energy. Creekpelt called her by her sister's name so often that it had nearly ceased to bother her.

"What happened to Snowfooot anyway?" Brownpaw asked from the front of the group, turning his head to look at Frostleaf and consequently tripping on a root.

Frostleaf sighed. "She abandoned us."

"No, she didn't," Creekpelt said, the old tom's anger flaring up suddenly. "Snowfoot was a good cat, and she'd never have left. She's dead."

"There's no body," said Frostleaf. "Never was a body. We'd have found something…"

"Stop arguing!" Bluepaw said loudly, and when the adults did not listen she turned and padded away on her own, back toward camp. She didn't look back to see whether her brothers were following or not. In that moment, she didn't even care if she got in trouble later.

The wind had picked up, a welcome change from the blazing heat earlier in the day. As she walked along, the voices faded out behind her, and on the breeze she thought, once again, that she scented smoke.

Bluepaw neared the camp with relief. She hated going out with her brothers, preferring instead the company of one of her younger cousins, usually Riverkit or Brookkit. Streamkit was fun enough, but playing with her soon grew tiring.

"Hello, Bluepaw. Back so soon?"

Bluepaw turned and hastened into a semblance of a respectful nod. "I'm sorry, Father…I mean Rushingstream…I mean Patriarch…I didn't see you."

Her father was golden-brown, thick furred, with a patch of white fur on his chest and amber eyes. He was much larger than her, and bore the closest resemblance to Brownpaw.

"Where are your brothers?" he asked, smiling. "And your prey?"

Bluepaw looked down at her paws, shamefaced. "I—I didn't catch anything. Brownpaw and Greenpaw were being rude, and then Frostleaf and Creekpelt were arguing, and I came back here."

"Disobedient," her father said quietly, his smile disappearing. "I thought you knew better."

"Yes, Patriarch," Bluepaw murmured, keeping her gaze on her feet as Rushingstream stood and padded away in the direction of his den. Feeling thoroughly depressed, she got to her paws and made her slow way to the edge of camp. She thought she might look for the kits.

The thought had just entered her mind when the grass next to her began to rustle, and out spilled three bundles of fur.

"You three?"

"Bluepaw, Bluepaw, you have to come quick," Brookkit panted, scrabbling to her paws and looking around with her wide green eyes. "No, no, you can't fight. Get the Patriarch. Get Father. Get someone!"

"What's going on?" Bluepaw asked. She would have thought the kits were joking, but there was no smile on any of their faces.

Riverkit sat up importantly. "There's a Fire cat on our territory! We all saw her! Didn't we?"

"Saw," Streamkit mumbled in agreement.

"She had all this ginger fur and dark eyes and her claws were long as wolves' teeth and she was going to kill us but then she ran away," Brookkit said breathlessly.

"Slow down—" Bluepaw began, but was interrupted as her brothers ran over, Creekpelt and Frostleaf hot on their tails; the patrol had returned while she was speaking to the kits.

"What's all this about the Fire?" Frostleaf asked sharply, looking between her daughters and Bluepaw.

"We saw her, Mother, quick!" Riverkit said, hopping.

Frostleaf glanced back into camp. "Bluepaw, Greenpaw, Brownpaw, Creekpelt, you come with me. Riverkit, you can lead us. _You two, don't you dare set a paw out of camp." _Without another backward glance, Bluepaw was following Frostleaf out through the grass. Riverkit was running as fast as she could, but even so the pace felt slow to the older cats.

The storm clouds were rolling in swiftly, and they blocked out the sun as the cats ran. Bluepaw gazed worriedly up at the sky, feeling a droplet of rain hit her nose. Fire can't quench water, she told herself, though the words rang hollowly in her skull.

The patrol entered the grassy patch where the three kits had been playing, but it was abandoned but for the boulder and the wind.

"She was right over there," Riverkit said, bounding over to the far side of the clearing. "See? You can even scent her!"

As the others followed, Bluepaw realized the kit was right. The scent hung in the air, and she realized for the first time that it was not smoke she was scenting—it was Fire.

"Quickly, or the rain will wash the trail away," Creekpelt called from the head of the patrol, before turning and racing through the grass and into the first sparse trees, following the scent trail.

How long they ran, Bluepaw wasn't quite sure, though it did not feel as though any time had passed when they pulled up short in a grove of tall, thick-trunked trees.

"The scent's gone," Creekpelt said in frustration. "It's as though they just disappeared…"

"She," Riverkit said insistently. "And she was here!"

Bluepaw was looking around the clearing, her clear eyes moving over the bark, when out of the corner of her eye she saw something, very faintly, moving. She looked up and met eyes with a cat high above her.

She was quite pretty, this Fire cat, a cat with a sleek ginger coat and light golden eyes. She stared down at Bluepaw, and Bluepaw stared up at her, feeling as though time was suspended. Bluepaw breathed in, and out, and in, and out…

"There she is!" It was Brownpaw who shouted, and Brownpaw who began clawing his way up the trunk of the tree first, a gleeful sort of bloodlust shining in his face. "I'll kill her!"

Ignoring Frostleaf's cry of "Don't be a fool," Greenpaw made to follow his brother and quickly passed him. Bluepaw watched her brothers circle the trunk, as the ginger she-cat stood on her branch and serenely waited for them, her fur rippling in the wind.

Greenpaw was the first to make it to her perch, and he pulled himself around onto the branch, his claws gleaming in the light. "Water quenches fire. Are you ready to drown, dog-face?"

The she-cat blinked as the apprentice moved forward, raising a paw to strike a blow—and then she moved very quickly, one paw moving to knock Greenpaw's legs out from under him as she ducked under his attack. The tom barely had time to yowl before he was plunging through the air, landing on the ground with a sickening crunch.

Bluepaw looked over at her fallen brother, wanting to run to him but finding her legs were frozen. Greenpaw's chest was barely rising and falling, and two of his paws were twisted in impossible ways, but a bubble of blood inflated and deflated at his nose, and Bluepaw knew he was breathing.

A second yowl from above caused them all to turn back to the branches. Brownpaw had reached the branch as well, but when the she-cat had slid under him, he had dropped all his weight onto her, pinning her immobile beneath him. Bluepaw caught a brief glimpse of wide golden eyes, and realized what had struck her so about this she-cat—she was young, barely as old as Bluepaw and her siblings were.

"This is for Greenpaw," Brownpaw hissed, raising a paw. "Water will quench fire." He swung down, and Bluepaw squeezed her eyes closed. She didn't have to see; she heard the sound of claws ripping through flesh, a brief cry that was cut short, and then the limp thud of a second body hitting the ground.

The Fire cat had fallen directly in front of her, and Bluepaw looked, though she did not want to. The cat's golden eyes were open, still and reflecting the light, and blood was bubbling out from her throat to make a warm pool around her broken body.

Brownpaw was climbing down the tree to the welcome of Riverkit's amazed mew and the congratulations of both Creekpelt and Frostleaf. Bluepaw dimly registered her brother walking to fallen Greenpaw and saying something to their brother, but she wasn't listening. All she heard was a faint pounding in her ears. The clouds had split above, and the sunlight was dappling onto ginger fur that no longer looked sleek, matted with fresh blood as it was.

"…Greenpaw will live," Frostleaf declared. "Stormblossom will see to it. And you, Brownpaw—never have I seen a cat so young perform such a feat, taking down a cat of the Fire single-pawed…"

"I just knew what she was going to do, and I dodged," Brownpaw boasted. "Without Greenpaw, I couldn't have done it. I'm just happy to rid the world of one of these pieces of filth." He spat on the body.

"Do you suppose the Patriarch will give you your warrior name now, Brownpaw?" Riverkit asked, staring up at him with wide eyes.

"I can only hope—Bluepaw? Are you all right?" Brownpaw had caught sight of his sister, still staring at the corpse as though it was a ghost. He padded over and rubbed against her, kicking the body away with one of his paws. Bluepaw visibly shuddered, before blinking and meeting his eyes.

"What…?"

"We'll bring this filth back to the Patriarch," Frostleaf was saying. "He should be informed that they were found so far into our territory."

"Are you all right?" asked Brownpaw again. Bluepaw nodded, dropping her head and walking away.

The patrol back was longer than it had taken to come. They walked now, Creekpelt dragging the limp body along while Frostleaf and Brownpaw supported Greenpaw between them. Riverkit was walking alongside the brothers, stumbling over her own paws in an effort to keep up with them.

Bluepaw made up the rear, watching the clouds overhead drift apart to reveal the sun, and thinking about the fact that she could no longer smell the smoke.

Then one thought took over her head, and would not leave: She supposed that the body of this cat would join the bones of the loner, guarding the entrance to the Water's camp.

Somewhere far above them, a hawk cried, and Bluepaw imagined that she heard a voice, very, very faintly, screaming a single word—a name.

"_Flare!"_

* * *

**A/N: If you take the time to read, please take the time to review! (Thanks, Tara!) Concrit is always appreciated!**


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